Who Wants to Live Forever?
by YoungBoho
Summary: Roger helps Mark accept the inevitable, MR friendship oneshot.  In memory of a friend who was killed this weekend...


**Disclaimer**: It's not mine. Thank you Jonathan Larson.

**Who Wants To Live Forever**

**Author's Note**: Roger helps Mark accept the inevitable. Written in memory of my friend who was killed over the weekend .

Roger sat quietly on the window ledge, looking out onto the bustling streets lying eleven stories below him. The world had become a brighter, clearer, place in the last few hours. It was suddenly more alive than it had ever been in his life. He wanted to do things, play chess, quit smoking, perform one last time, write another song, cook an entire meal by himself. Things he'd never thought of attempting before had become the center of his life, his purpose.

Everything tasted so much sweeter than it had before Roger's appointment at the clinic this morning. The results weren't a surprise, not to him anyway. A dark blotch had appeared a few weeks ago on his leg, the first of many. Roger's time was fast approaching, and he accepted that. The only thing left for him to do was enjoy these last few weeks or months, whatever he had left.

The moment the doctor had read his prognosis, a deep peace had grown inside him, and he accepted the news without argument. This was it. The moment he had been dreading for the past five years.

AIDS.

Kaposi's Sarcoma.

In a way death was a relief. All of his trials and pain and suffering would disappear with that one last breath, he would be free.

"You should start thinking about putting your affairs in order," the doctor had told him. Roger just nodded and thanked the kind man for all of his help over the years, including the occasional bottle of free AZT, and pulled Mark back out onto the street with him, marveling at how nothing had changed to the rest of the world while everything would be different for now on between him and Mark. They wouldn't have to wonder how much longer until the end. Now it was just a game of waiting for it. There was nothing left to do, no more doctors' appointments, no more worrying, no more wondering, there was no point now. Roger had to accept his fate, and he was determined to do so with a smile.

Mark hadn't said a word after they left the clinic. The entire time they were in the examination room, he had sat completely still, like a stature, his jaw clenched so tightly that Roger didn't think he would have been able to speak even if he wanted to.

When they finally reached the loft, Mark just turned and locked himself in his room, much like Roger would have only a few months earlier.

Roger didn't know how to help his friend accept the fate that was so easy for him, so he just let Mark go. He had a lot to think about anyway.

Thoughts of death and dying fluttered through his crystal clear mind at random. Does it hurt to die? What is death exactly? Where do you go, what happens after your heart finally stops beating? What about Mark?

The sun began to set as Roger lost himself, going deep inside his mind as he searched for answers to his questions. The cold, dead, buildings that lined the streets during the day were brought to life by the sparkling reflection of sunset on glass. Lights sprinkled the skyline, painting the landscape that he had grown so accustomed to over the last few years.

Roger inhaled deeply, breathing in the musty smell of the city mixed with the stale air of his apartment, his home. This was where he was happiest. Nothing would ever replace the memories he had collected in his short time here. Being here, lost in the center of the universe amongst the drugs and death, was the best time in his life and he could never regret it.

If he had the choice to go back and leave New York for college and a career, and then start a family and live a long, full life, instead of cutting it short, and be lost forever among so many others who had fallen victim to the same invisible enemy, Roger would choose to the exact same life he lead.

"Are you scared?" Mark's small voice managed to startle Roger out of his thoughts and back into reality. It was the first time he had left his room since they returned from the clinic. He was standing almost timidly, in the doorway with his hands shoved deep inside his coat and his face wearing a tight, _old_, expression.

"Not really," Roger answered. "It's kind of nice knowing actually."

They were silent for a few moments, stuck on opposite ends of the apartment, a divide hovering between them.

"What about you?" Roger asked finally, breaking the heavy curtain of quiet. He knew Mark wasn't taking the news well, and couldn't help feeling guilty that he was going to be forced to hurt Mark yet again. "Are you scared?"

"I'm terrified," Mark whispered after a few seconds of internal debate. Tears began to pour from behind his thick black frames, as the first of many sobs in the days to come pushed past his lips.

Roger had Mark wrapped up in his arms within seconds, bounding across the apartment faster than he'd moved in weeks. Telling Mark that everything was going to be alright would be a cruel lie. Roger was going to die and Mark wasn't. After too many years of making sure Roger was as healthy as he could possibly be, Mark was going to have to accept defeat and say goobye. No one could make that alright.

As soon as his weakening arms reached for him, Mark dug his fingers into the leather folds of his jacket and clung to him as if holding Roger as tightly as possible would keep him alive longer. Tears were soaking the front of his shirt, but he didn't care, he only hugged Mark tighter.

"I don't know what I'm going to do without you," Mark murmured into Roger's chest. After a lifetime of friendship, Mark had finally broken down. He wept like a small child while Roger offered what limited comfort he could.

"I know Mark, I know."

They stood there like that for an immeasurable amount of time. It could have been minutes or hours, maybe longer. Time had ceased to matter. Roger was going to hold Mark as long as he needed him to, for as long as he was able to.

They eventually drifted apart and ended up sitting on the dusty, dirty, ground where they had been standing moments before, talking and reminiscing, creating yet another memory to add to the hoard that they had already collected, until it was interupted by a hoarse cough erupting from Roger's throat, which immediately reminded them both of what was to come. They were in their final moments together as best friends. In a few short weeks their relationship was to become nothing more than fond thoughts of moments like this when they were together.

"Do you ever wonder what it's like to die?" Mark asked.

Roger hesitated before answering. "Every day."

"Well… what do you think?" he pressed.

"I don't know, it's not like I've ever talked to a dead person," Roger joked, before his face fell into a silent grimace as he contemplated the question. "I think it's like going to sleep and maybe being awake at the same time, sort of like... I don't know it's stupid-"

"No, keep going!"

"Well… I guess I feel like it's a kind of peace for the soul, you know? You're still aware and you exist, in a weird sort of way, but you're free, or something. You're on a higher level..." he trailed off.

Mark smiled. "I like that," he pulled his legs beneath him before continuing. "So you'll still be around… just not really,"

"Yeah, I guess so,"

"I like that." he repeated, a soft smile spreading over his features.

"Good."

Silence fell over the two friends again, but this time it was a much lighter, more friendly silence, with just a tinge of awkwardness. They were still comfortable together.

Yet, the longer it held, the harder it was to hold onto the pleasant thoughts of death that Roger had created. Mark struggled to keep the image of an invisible, happy, Roger following him around for the rest of his life, but found himself unable to hold it for long. It didn't change the fact that he was going to be stuck here alone without his best friend. They wouldn't have any more moments like this where they where all facades were set aside and they were left completely open with each other. It was a matter of time before it all came to an end

"I'm still going to miss you," he said finally, tears beginning to fall for the second time that night.

Roger moved over to where Mark was sitting, so close that he could feel the heat radiating from his tears. "When April died," Roger began after a few seconds' reflection. "I thought that this was it, that there was no point in living without her," he stared straight ahead as one of the darkest times of his life drudged itself up to the surface of his mind.

"I just missed her so much, he said. "It hurt like hell waking up every morning after crying myself to sleep just to find out that she was still gone. Jesus, it hurt so fucking much," tears had formed in Roger's overcast green eyes. He hadn't said anything about April in several months, and Mark had never brought it up. The few months that they were together had cost him everything and it was a time best forgotten. "But then one day, it was just a little easier to get up and move and do things, and I promise that it will get easier for you too Mark. You just have to keep going,"

"How can you be so calm?" Mark asked suddenly, his voice loud with a powerful hostility that shook Roger to the core. "You've only got a few fucking weeks left and suddenly you're Mr. Dalai Lama, with all the answers!"

"Mark-"

"You're going to just…. stop existing, and leave me here. You get to run away from everything once again and leave me to pick up the pieces, except I don't think I can do it this time Roger," Mark broke down and sobbed yet again, his heartbreak loud enough for the entire building to hear. "Don't leave me here alone Roger… please, don't do this to me," he begged

"_Mark_-"

"Just…no," Mark said pulling himself to his feet and retreating back into his bedroom, quietly locking the door behind him.

Roger sat there, mouth gaping open, his mind grasping at anything he could think of that would help Mark accept the inevitable. Guilt suddenly overwhelmed him, and he found himself breaking down. Roger mourned his own death, not for himself, but for Mark. They had a few precious weeks together, and then he was going to be alone. Mark's worst fear was approaching faster than either of them could belive. Roger couldn't be angry at Mark for yelling at him like that, he would probably be doing the same thing if their positions were reversed.

But there was nothing he could do, he had no control over the situation. It wasn't like he wanted to die, but it was going to happen just the same.

His eyes flickered around the apartment, looking for something, anything, to inspire him. Every stick of furniture in the place held some kind of memory, some special moment that needed to be preserved. They all played out in Roger's mind as he looked back on his life here in the city. When his gaze managed to drift over to Mark's camera he immediately knew what to do.

It wouldn't be long before the strength would finally leave his body, and Roger will be able to do little else but sleep and maybe eat the ocassional morsel of food. He didn't want Mark's last memory of him to be a shriveled old man too weak to get out of bed. Mark needed some happiness to hold onto, something _real_. Carefully picking the delicate machine up off of its side on the cold steel table, Roger set it down right side up and stepped in front of the lens, hoping that he had set up the shot properly, and wouldn't be just some floating head, or faceless body, Mark was always a tad anal about stuff like that.

Mark had just put in a fresh role of film that morning so that meant Roger had about a half hour of tape. A half hour to say everything he needed to say to his best friend, to say goodbye to the one person who knew him better than anyone.

"Hey Mark… it's me," Roger waved and grinned into the lens. "You're off pouting in your room so I thought I'd just talk to your little camera here, hopefully I didn't fuck anything up when I turned it on… I don't have to tell you that I know dick about that stuff," he grinned again. He spoke just loud enough to be sure that the camera's small microphone would pick up his voice, but still low enough so that Mark wouldn't hear him.

"Anyways, I just wanted to tell you some stuff… sort of Roger's philosophy on life… or death technically. I wasn't lying when I told you that I wasn't afraid, I really feel like there's nothing to worry about. I don't regret anything Mark, not one thing, I mean that," his eyes gazed steadily into the camera, fierce enough that Mark would have no choice but to believe him when he finally saw the footage.

"There is not one thing I would change about my life, not even April. I know it wasn't as long as most people's or as… traditional, but it was good. I did everything I've always wanted. I got to perform on stage, I got to love, I got to freeze to death with my best friend for four months straight every winter," Roger laughed as the memories of winters passed flickered in his mind.

"You are my best friend Mark," he suddenly grew serious. "and I don't think I've ever thanked you for that. You put up with so much shit from me… Jesus I don't know why you stuck around for so long you dumb bastard, but I'm glad you did. I guess I just want to say I love you man, and I want only the best for you, because you deserve it more than anyone I've ever met."

Roger lifted the camera from its makeshift tripod on the table and held it at arms length while he wandered the apartment and recounted certain events and memories that had taken place in the space. He laughed on camera as he remembered drunken escapades with everyone cramped in the too small loft.

Every happy memory he could think of had spilled forth from his lips, preserved on the film. As the minutes ticked by he began to feel lighter, more at ease. Roger's life may have been short, but it was packed with eighty years' worth of experiences. He knew what it was like to love, and be loved. He had felt heartbreak, he understood the beautfiul rush of adrenaline that accompanied every performance. Roger was finally content with how everything turned out and now Mark would know exactly how he felt and there would always be something to remember him by. Roger hoped that it would be enough to help Mark move on.

When the reel finally ran out of film, Roger struggled to remove it from the camera in one piece before rolling it up and scrawling Mark's name across it. He then tucked it into his guitar case, a place he was sure Mark wouldn't touch until after he was gone, where he would find it when he would need it the most.

_RIP Cam_


End file.
